Padiddle
by CompetentCoquete
Summary: A look into the semi-itinerant life of Dave and Terezi in a post SB/G world that could have been/may be had things finished up somewhere before cascade. Rated T for some swears, here and there.
1. Chapter 1

Terezi stands on tiptoe at Dave's back, face pressed into the scratchy anise wool of his stocking cap, because that is the rule. To be precise, the rule is that she hide her eyes while Dave finds a suitable target; but games are no fun if she can't bend the rules just a little bit. He pivots and she sidesteps to follow, creepy-crawling her hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck as she listens for the tiny motor-whirr of the camera's focus, the sudden hush as he holds his breath for the shutter, and for her chance to strike.

There.

In the instant before the shutter fires, Terezi slides her thumbs below the edge of Dave's hat and lifts. A soft rush of warm cream and the vaguest whiff of salted caramel follows the night wind, carrying a hint of smoke and oil, away behind her as she buries her nose into the soft, secret spot at the edge of his hairline. His scent is always so gentle, feminine even, and the secret, her private dirt on Strider, brings with it a weird sense of your-mine pride. A subtle blip of gummy fondant-pink surges beneath his skin as well as a restrained ripple through his shoulders. Terezi smiles, her cheeks flushing near teal with the thrill of an early victory. She knows where the buttons are, she knows when to push them; she is not above bending the rules.

Dave pivots again, left, right, left, and Terezi keeps step. The mix-up. He stops and pulls away, turning and presenting the camera.

"Ms. SanDiego," Dave says, his deadpan drawl turning into a pillowy little cloud in the cool air. "If you would control yourself."

On its surface, the game is one part I Spy and one part Hide-and-Go-Seek, shits and giggles to kill time. Just beneath, where the good bits are, it's a lot more like Chicken. Terezi takes one last sniff, savoring the fading, but distinct, glow behind the chapped, fridge-taste-smell of Dave's cheeks before pressing her nose to the camera's flickering screen. With a marvelous, exaggerated, wet, and wrenching sort of sound, she takes a long draw from the display. She picks her way past the layer of ozone and oyster brine lingering in the backlight and dives all the way down, just above the pixels. There is a depressing, amount of brown, and gray, and blue.

"What's my hint?" She drags her tongue across the image on the screen, listening carefully for any hidden sounds of disgust as she smacks the taste of the plastic against her lips. "Wet concrete and stupid, sore loser?"

"Padiddle." Dave says. "That is all."

"You're making shit up." She takes another lick of the screen, tasting around for some other pallet in the photo. There, behind a horrid splotch of doorknob-steel and tar-black rubber is the tiniest glimmer of something delicious. "That's not a thing that is."

"I assure you, totally relevant for any red-blooded, road-tripping, sumbitch."

"Oh, my. Is it anything like a kettle? Because if it's nearly as naughty, I will seriously begin to question your motives, sir."

The flavor is maddening at this scale. A miniscule mishmash of tropical sweetness, subdued, velvety, sugar-sweet electric, and something else she can't quite place. She has to make it bigger. This has to be it. Whatever the hell a padiddle is, it better taste this good or she is going to be very disappointed.

"You can't just delete them every time you lose, Tz."

He takes a step forward and reaches for the camera, his creamy, candy scent riding another balmy puff. She turns away from his grabby hands and blips through another menu.

"Shut up, I only did that once." She growls under her breath as she begins mashing buttons with a bit more urgency.

"Sixteen times."

"Thirteen." The camera hums once, retracts its lens and goes dark. "Also, shut up."

"You break it?"

"No!"

Realizing that she'd spit the word with a little more force than intended, Terezi straightens her shoulders, with the dignity of a proper lady, and tugs her plaid, fur-lined cap down flat against her head. She ignores the sound of threads ripping around her horns and holds the camera out to Dave, forcing it into his gloved hands. Taking a quick, half-step as he moves to pull the camera back, she slips her fingers beneath his sleeve. Her fingertips press into his wrist and she clenches her teeth for a moment to suppress a giggle at the sudden swell of sticky pink in the air.

"I've just decided that you're going to take me there so I can show you my sicknasty padiddle hunting skills in person."

Terezi takes hold of Dave's arm with a calculated, just-a-little-too-tight grip and hugs it to her chest.

"I assure you," She smiles, showing her teeth. "They will pay all of the debts."

"Bills." Dave says, stoic.

Terezi flattens her expression and stares up at him until he relents, forces out a heavy sigh and turns back towards the oily smells. She waits only a moment longer than it takes him to set off, to give her that vital directional hint, before forcing a backseat lead. Walking in lockstep with Dave, Terezi pushes his pace faster and faster until she lets loose of his arm and feels his smell fall behind her.

"Hey, Tz," Dave says, the sounds of jogging growing heavy on his breath. "Wait up."

His creaminess is replaced by the thick, sticky stink of tar and she smacks her tongue against the roof of her mouth to flush it out. The smell of oil is near overpowering when she breaks through at last. There, behind the mud and charcoal is the glimmer of the padiddle and certain victory. Bright, fruity, and beckoning, the scent whips up her excitement and settles a strange, bitter feeling into her belly. It calls to her, encased in layer upon layer of smooth clean glass, on the other side of the sticky foulness. Her boots crunch into loose stone and then onto hard, unforgiving flatness. The grey scents roll and mix in the air, jostled by a whooshing rush of sound that swells and fades from alternating sides. Left, whoosh, right, whoosh, oily stink left right, whoosh, padiddle.

Before she can take another step Dave's hand digs into the back of her mottled, patchwork jacket and yanks her back to the loose, mushroom stones. A deep, bellowing sound that reeks of smoke, and coal, and accumulated dust flies by, shaking the ground beneath her feet. Terezi wobbles for a moment and turns back to Dave as the semi's horn fades into the distance. How much of a pain it is, remembering roads, when one doesn't care to drive.

The scent of caramel, thrown strong into the air as Dave pulls his hat off and uses it to wipe the moisture from his face, is lost on Terezi as she touches the toes of her boots together. Cheeks flushed, she chews at the inside of her lip; searching for an apology before she notices a new smell wafting away from Dave as he clutches at the collar of his shirt. He flaps the fabric against his chest like a bellows and it forces the scent into the cool air. It's a sour smell. Fresh, and pink, and sweet. A summertime smell that pulls her out of the winter air and makes her crave something warm.

She feels a sudden urge to reach out and touch him. To take another step closer, at least. Maybe just fluff his hair before he puts that hat back on. Just a little.

"Damn it, Girl," he exhales one more big breath that expels the last plume of that sweet summer scent. "That was a special brand of shortbus, right there."

Head still a bit heavy, Terezi contemplates apologizing. Staring at her feet she thinks about reaching out for his hand and just letting him walk her home, nice and comfortable and close. Her hand even rises a bit, reaching. But then she catches a glimpse of that pin-straight, so-what mouth. His face set and solid, staring down at her silly, flushing almost-smile. Terezi decides that she's not done yet.  
>She reaches out and takes his hands in hers; stepping in close where all he can see is the sweetness she aims up into his face.<p>

"You saved me." She draws the A out long, into a singsong tease.

Fondant and a lingering memory of the mystery smell threaten to topple her plans. Terezi locks her knees, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and leans in a little closer to Dave. Inches from his chin on purpose. She wants him to see the cold tinge in her cheeks, smell her scent. Become painfully aware of the fact that she is -there-.

"We're getting you a leash." He says.

"Lead me?"

Dave turns back to the road, his hands gone limp despite her grip.

"And a muzzle."

"Ooh."

She can smell the flush in his cheeks even with his back turned. Squeezing his hand, she flashes a smug little grin to herself as he strolls out onto the road. There are no more rushing sounds. No more rumbling in the ground. Dave's breath trails above her head, swirling away into the nighttime mélange against the hard, rapping backdrop of her boot heels against the asphalt.

She stumbles when Dave neglects to tell her that they've reached the opposite curb, the scuffing of his sneakers offering little by way of advance warning. She drops his hand and thrusts her arms out to the side, taking a short hopskip on one foot as she reigns in her equilibrium. Dave doesn't turn to look until he reaches a tiny, purple vehicle. Terezi jams her feet to the ground, planting herself solid before he can see her stumble.  
>Much smaller than the semi, the car's scent is full of curves and bubbles, like some kind of little insect. It could be cute, even in spite of its horrible, rubber, petrol stink. Dave tilts his glasses, just a bit, and raises an eyebrow as he leans back against the fender. Terezi takes a reflexive breath in search of his irises, though the muddled night air leaves them obscured. She grumbles under her breath.<p>

"What's a curb smell like, Pyrope?"

Terezi narrows her eyes behind her glasses and bites at the inside of her lip.

"Hmm?"

He snaps his glasses back into place, almost letting slip with a little smile. Still biting her lip, Terezi jams her hands into her pockets and stomps her way past Dave. Weaving between big pairs of ugly, colorless boxes with the same nasty, light-headed stink as the bubble car, Terezi searches for the bright light of her goal. Dead ahead the cold scent of glass is thick in the air, behind that the stupid padiddle and Dave's stupid stupid smug smirk wiped clean off his face and crammed under a rock where it belongs.

Terezi sniffs out the doorhandle and heaves with all of her weight. A bell, somewhere above, rattles as the door swings back on its hinges and a wave of chocolate candied meaty crunchy salty sweet junk blasts out on a surge of hot air. She clenches her hands in her pockets and steps inside, breathing through her mouth as much as possible and wiping a helpless bit of drool from the corner of her mouth. Her jaw pops as she grinds her teeth, pushing away the thought of running through the store, licking everything within reach. Now is time for padiddles and padiddles only. The scent is strong here.

Somewhere. Left?

No. Right.

Shelf, shelf, shelf. No. The back walls smell of cold, more glass, and long strips of fluorescent light. The glass is cool against her nose and its scent settles deep in her lungs, spreading in the twisty, branchy way the little white coffee-buckets do when you pour them into water instead of coffee. She pauses, listens to the clerk fold his newspaper to glance at her and then return to reading, and exhales as she follows the neon trail to the corner.

The bell rattles again as she reaches the back wall of the store and the faint scent of cream filters into the clutter of the room. Terezi listens as she tugs the open the nearest cooler door. Here, the nagging, familiar, fruity scent of the padiddle is strongest. Racks on racks on racks of padiddles, stacked inside of an oversized refrigerator. Blue, yellow, purple, green, and red flood her head and for a moment everything goes all swimmy. The points of her teeth peek, excited, over the edge of her bottom lip as she reaches out for the nearest, fattest, roundest red bottle.

It's heavy in her hands and smells so delicious, and confounding, and familiar. The plastic makes a satisfying squeaky noise under the tip of her nose as she snuffles against the wonky, bubbly, twistiness of the label's lettering. Over the sound she can hear Dave, an aisle behind, prodding bags of chips.

F.

The rich, artificial red inside of the bottle leaves her head a little floaty. It's stronger up close

A.

Somewhere before. But, where?

Y.

Terezi's eyes snap open, a strange reflex all considered, and she thrusts the bottle out at arm's length. Fumbling, scrambling to keep it from tumbling to the floor and rolling away, she rips the door open and shoves the soda back into place. Some place. Any place. There, it won't fall nestled into a cloud of cloying blue raspberry. Spinning on her heel, she dives wrist-first into the nearest shelf.

His footsteps come to a stop at her back and she can smell the corn chips and salsa, a lovely syrupy crimson despite her current state, in his hands.

"You didn't do that thing where you smell the shelves did you?" He says. "People make us leave when you do that."

Terezi doesn't answer, only a quick sniffle as she shuffles through the bags of candy dangling from steel pegs in front of her. Without thinking she takes one that smells like him, cream and caramel, and stuffs it into his arms.

"I won," she says. "So it's your turn to pay."

Before he can answer she turns and stomps away, hands hiding her face as she hurries back out of the door and into the monosmell world outside. No cream follows her and she stops trying to listen for footsteps beneath the ugly clang of that bell fading out over the road. Gripping the flaps of her cap, she pulls it down tight to her head and crumples herself next to a big, humming box that smells like plastic and fresh ice.

By the time Dave sits down next to her, bags in hand, her sleeves are coated in a thin film of gooey teal. She scoots away, closer to the box, but he follows. Pinned to the buzzing sidewall, she turns away in a pouting, shark-toothed grumble.

"You are an asshole, Dave Strider."

Nothing.

Moments pass. Dave is silent. The bags crinkle and Terezi shifts. Her fingers tighten into fists and she digs the tips of her fingernails into her jeans, swearing to herself, fuming that he won't even bother to respond. Then, ten tiny pin pricks turn to noticeable tears under her nails as she feels something warm along her neck.

Eyes jammed shut, she huddles closer to the icebox, struggling not to turn and face him. His fingers slip past the band of her hat and tangle themselves up into her hair. A slow shiver runs the length of her spine and, despite her residual grumpiness, she doesn't resist when he pulls her back. Turning as she slides, she buries her face into his shoulder and growls, throwing a punch into the side of his chest with her undersized fist.

"It was the car, dumbass." He says.

Terezi huffs into his coat and thumps his chest again, mumbling against the fabric.

"Cars are stupid."

"You owe me four thirty-seven."

Again, a small silence stretches past and she lifts her face from his shoulder. The high collar of his coat is mussed, wrinkled and folded away, leaving his neck exposed to the cold night air. Terezi presses her nose to the underside of his jaw and smiles at the fair, scratchy stubble grown in since the day before.

"You going to eat this shitty-ass candy you made me buy, or what?"

"Ass-candy." She smiles.

Dave opens the bag, takes one, and holds it up to the light.

"The balls are ox tails, anyhow?" He says.

Terezi can smell the sticky, syrup scent of the candy and the earthiness of Dave's skin mixing in the air around her. Eyes still closed, she keeps herself tucked up under Dave's chin and opens her mouth wide.

"Feed me!" She says, tongue hanging dangling, limp save for some obscene wiggling at the tip.

She waits, his smell and the candy mingling until inseperable. Sitting in her strange, Davesmell bubble she starts against him when she feels his candy-hand at her hip.

"Hey," She says, cut short by the hard edge of the candy pressed to her lips and surrounded by the warm, creamy hush of Dave's breath.

Responding to a slight push from Dave's fingers, still nestled beneath her hat, Terezi snaps at the caramel, using the sticky lump as purchase to pull him to her mouth. Fingers dashing from his chin to the back of his neck, she inhales loud and sharp and hard, holding him in place as her tongue slips the candy from his grip, stashing it in her cheek before she pulls at his lips. A sudden flood of heat barrels into her cheeks and she lets slip a hungry little whimper as she turns further towards his body, reaching under his arm and around the back of his shoulder with her free hand.

And then he pulls away. His hands leave her hair and her hips, brace against her chest, and push her back. Back teeth glued together by candy, she whispers around it and pulls hard at his shoulders.

"No, no, no." When she blinks, she can feel her eyelashes clinging together. "Please?"

She folds up, hinged at his arm as it slips around her waist. Fingers wrapping into his coat, she wads it in her grip and hides her face in the mess with a frustrated half-sob. Another moment and his hand is at the back of her neck, playing with the bits of hair tangled in the fur fringe of her cap.

"Probably my own fault," He says. "But maybe warn me next time?"

She lifts her head, wipes the stickiness from her cheeks with her palms and rests her chin on his shoulder. Nose stuffed from crying, she nestles closer to his neck until his scent swells strong and her forehead touches his chin.

"No," she says. Still a bit damp, her fingers feel cold as she wiggles them up under her glasses to wipe her eyes again. "Who even does that?"

"Does what?" He says, and his deadpan delivery shudders for a moment.

"Uses a stupid piece of candy to-" There's the mystery smell again and its intensity causes her cheeks to flush. Overpowering, sweet, and sour. It lingers just above his skin and she wonders where it was moments before. Taking her hands from Dave's shoulders, she slips them inside of his coat and around his waist.

"To?" He's smiling now, what a douche.

"Shut up, jerkass." She presses her lips to his skin, just once, and lets out a cry-tired sigh. "Take me home."

Dave slips from her grip as he stands, taking the sweet, summery smell with him. Terezi can hear the bags rustle as he wraps them around his wrist, but when he takes more than few steps away he fades away into the nasty jumble of parking lot stink.

"Dave?" She says, scooting forward and rising onto her knees.

"Hm?" The bags shiver somewhere to her right.

"Lead me?" She sniffs and holds her hands out into the air, scrunching her nose as she struggles to find his scent.

Dave scoops both of her hands into one of his and she can feel the heat rising from her cheeks to her ears as she thinks about how nice it is that he can do that. She stands and takes a step towards him, biting her lip and thinking about how silly she has to be to even like something like that.  
>His grip is loose and she weaves her fingers between his, he doesn't fight it. He doesn't even flinch when she shifts to noodle her other arm around his and hug it to her chest, nuzzling her face into his sleeve as they walk. The fabric is warm. She sniffles. Nothing.<p>

She sniffs again, but still nothing. A vague greyness presses in on her as she tries to pull another breath through her nose. Nothing but a wet, squawking sound fills the air and she darts her tongue out to take a quick taste of his sleeve. It's rough, and a little cool from the wind that's building around them, but tasteless nonetheless. Above her head, Dave clears his throat.

"That is fucking nasty, Tz."

She blushes hard, and jams her face into his shoulder. "This is why I hate crying."

"Because it reduces you to a disgusting droolbag?" A new breeze kicks up and the bags rustle in his free hand. "No wonder."

"No, dick." She rolls her head to the side, taking a mouthful of the cool air. "I can't see you."

Dave is silent for a moment, and then stops. He turns on his heel and slides his fingers up alongside Terezi's chin, up her jaw, and to her ear. Her grip tightens on his arms and she almost giggles at the sticky feeling of the plastic bags, hanging from his wrist, against her cheek.

"I still can't smell, doofus." She says, playing with the bumps of his knuckles under her thumb.

Still quiet, Dave slides his thumb under the edge of her cap, just above her eyebrows, and lifts until her horns are nearly exposed. He leans in close and presses his lips to her forehead, just between her eyebrows where the bridge of her nose tapers away. Terezi shudders for an instant as a fresh burst of that sweet and sour smell, so strong it bashes its way in past her blocked nose, turns her stupid knees to jelly and curls her toes in her boots. Digging her nails into Dave's hand and his coat, she grumbles and bumps her head against his face, all the while biting her lip to hold in the embarrassing little coo stuck on her tongue.

Without a word, Dave slides her hat back into place and begins walking again. Terezi struggles to keep pace, stumbling through a handful of unsure steps before she finds a comfortable rhythm. She clutches his arm, crushing it like the sole survivor her battered plush collection. Dave doesn't say anything. She lifts her head, trying to recapture even a tiny whiff of that elusive smell. He looks over to her and she can hear his glasses settling on his face. She flaps her mouth open and closed, searching for something witty, before snapping it shut and pressing her face back into his sleeve.


	2. Of Chicken and Directions

By the time Dave opens the door, paper bags in hand and face flushed red from the cold, she is already back under the blankets and lying stock-still. Though a quick check of the room reveals a few telling clues. The curtains are a shifted too far to the left and there is a wet spot, just about face-height, on the back of the door. He tosses the keys down on the scratched, faux-wood table near the TV, crosses to the bed, and throws back the covers. She peeks over the edge of a pillow clutched to her chest.

"That is fucking nasty, Tz."

"I have no idea to what you are referring," She shifts and he can see the drool stains on the backs of her sleeves. "As I have done nothing wrong."

He takes a foam tub of cole slaw from one of the bags and drops it on top of her pillow. Her eyebrows rise above her glasses, smudged and greasy from being pressed against her face, and he can just picture the grin hidden a little ways below, all pointy teeth and sloppy tongue.

"Haven't you people ever heard of boxes?" She sits up and tosses the pillow to the side as she peels the lid away from the slaw. "I swear I feel so dirty eating out of these itty-bitty little things."

"I am shocked and appalled, ." Dave settles onto the mattress, the bag of food in his lap. "The doings of a man and his box are sacred-scandal in this country."

"Really?" A sound uncomfortably close to hope creeps into her voice, lips coated in watered-down mayonnaise.

"Fuck no," He says. "But we do fill them with the nastiest shit that'll just kill you so good."

At that he pinches open a box of steaming biscuits, wafting the buttery scent towards her face. He allows himself a moment of mental gloating as she licks her lips clean and reaches out for the box, dull eyes just a little bit more glazed than usual. Pulling it back he takes one for himself and rips into a healthy bite. He waves the crumbling stump in her face.

"Jesus Christ, woman." Finishing the biscuit off, he speaks around the mouthful. "What'd I just say about sacred boxes and shit?"

She screws up her forehead and shoves her lower lip out in an exaggerated, grumpy pout. "Oh dear," she says. "How could I have forgotten my manners?"

"None too surprising," He says. "Raised by turtles or whatever it was. Excusable since you still seem to struggle with the fork."

"I'm perfectly capable," she says, sitting back on her ankles and craning another oversized pinch of cole slaw into her mouth. "Hands just make it taste better."

She smiles, "Besides."

"Besides, what?" He picks at another biscuit, popping the scrap into his mouth.

"You've got something a lot better hiding over there."

Hand over hand, Terezi nearly runs nose-first into Dave as she crawls towards him. She inhales and lets her tongue drop over her teeth. Dave sighs and drums his fingers on his knees, his breath fogging the smudgy lenses of her glasses. She stops and reaches down into Dave's lap, rummages around momentarily, and giggles when her hand comes back greasy and covered in crumbs, clutching a leg of fried chicken.

"I -love- it when you bring dinner home, Dave." She says, taking a bite. "So, manly."

"I love it when you chew with your damn mouth closed," he says. "More than six inches from my face."

She swallows and picks a bit of crispy from the bone. Popping it into her mouth, she leans in just close enough that her nose touches his. In spite of himself, Dave can feel little prickles of heat creeping along the back of his neck and the edges of his palms. It's time for a contingency plan, a little helping of back the fuck up before I make an ass of myself. He tips his glasses down, just a bit, and raises an eyebrow.

"You know that shit comes in buckets, yeah?"

Plan success: Debatable. She pulls back an inch or so, but her hands fly up to the sides of his face. Nasty and sticky and greasy. The chicken leg rolls away to the side, lonely and forgotten in the midst of the backfire.

"Oh, you always know just what to say," she says, her voice an oily purr.

She licks her lips and shows him one of her widest play-to-win grins as she inches closer on her knees, thumbs leaving schmaltzy trails up and down his cheeks. When she reaches for the glasses, he pulls back and she makes her move. As Dave falls to his back, he can feel her searching for a good hold in his hair, the weight of her ass on his stomach, and her goddamn elbows dug in just under his shoulders. Her tongue smells like the chicken, chicken and something a little softer but that's mostly irrelevant because it is just way too close to the naked whites of his eyes and it is kind of weirding him the fuck out. The tip flicks its way under one lens and he wraps his hands around her middle, fingers digging into the exposed skin where her shirt rides up her hips.

"That is -fucking- nasty, Tz."

"Yeah?" She runs the tip of her tongue along the bridge of his nose and winds her fingers into his hair. "Whatcha gonna do?"

Her grip is way too strong for someone so small and the tips of her nails dig into his scalp. When he tries to turn away from her tongue his cheek presses, splat, into a lukewarm chunk of rogue chicken and good lord that is just too much.

"Get you the fuck off me." He says as his hands scramble from her hips and grasp for the messy tangles of her hair.

She's able to choke out little less than a surprised growl as her head snaps back and exposes her neck to the open air. He can feel her nails actually drawing blood as he wrenches her away. She flails for a moment, but with her grip broken he finds her easy enough to toss around. A wet squelching noise breaks the messy grunting as he forces her, backwards thanks to a healthy grip on her tiny chin, onto a tumbledown pile of birdflesh. A little gross, but this is desperate times. Finally, with a sideways, rolling kind of jaunt that's a little too awesome and a little too Texas to be too ironic, he pins her to the bed, her thighs between his painfully, hipster skinny, knees.

It's right there, surrounded by the smell of chicken and the disappointing feeling of coleslaw on his socks, that it hits him just how much her eyes still do even if they don't work. Wide and cloudy, they are definitely staring in his direction. Not quite focused, for sure, but definitely where he is or where she'd wanted him to be. He can see a tiny hint of a smile struggling to break free at the edge of her bottom lip, pinned in place by her pointed teeth, and the pulse beneath his palm is ridiculous fast. Her cheeks, smoked grey despite the sick-yellow light thrown by the motel light bulbs, are beginning to flush light with teal and Dave realizes just one thing.

That he, David Motherfucking Strider, just got played.

His palm's begun to sweat, pressed so tight to her neck, and all he wants to do is pull away, take a seat back at the headboard, get rid of his soggy sock, and have a nice, chill, deadpan, never-let-on-it's-a-sulk sulk. Also maybe eat some back chicken, if it's not too backy. But, something happens when he tries to make good on the whole plan.

She follows his palm. She presses her throat into his fingers, really freaking hard, and mouths one word.

'No.'

Thoughts of chicken set to the back burner, Dave stares down at Terezi. Eyes narrowed behind his shades, he lets his fingers slip down from the underside of her chin and settle around her tiny, pigeon neck. It's always softer than he thinks it's going to be, all ropey muscles, and bowstring tendons, and clammy soft skin, but, this time, held taut under his touch. He's barely tightened his fingers when her eyes flutter back and her lips drop open. In the instant her back arches and forces her tiny chest up from the bed, his hand jumps away from her neck. Still seated over her thighs, Dave wipes his hands on his shirt, wringing and itching his palms. Not to mention, unable to hold eye contact despite his glasses.

"Shit, Tz." His voice shakes, just barely. "The hell was that."

Silence except for her shallow breathing.

He turns to the side, surveys the damage done by their little tussle, and lifts his knee. He's not even cleared her thigh when he feels something small and warm through his jeans. He looks back and she's got her hands on his thighs. They're not gripping; they're not squeezing, not clawing, pulling, or tearing, just there. Petting. The lines of her face have softened and he can see a blue tinge creeping into the edge of her lips.

"Please?" She whispers.

Her voice is tiny and quiet, off-putting in its smallness. But the look in her eyes, her red-jade, useless eyes, is a shot straight through the chest. His mouth's run dry and instead of a nonchalant 'Sure, baby, whatevs.' he hiccoughs as he tries to swallow. His hand is shaking when he places it around her neck again, fingers close to touching around the backside near her hairline, and her hands creep their way from his thighs to his hips to his stomach. She takes hold of his shirt and pulls. He gives in faster than he probably should.

Down at bed level, he can feel her heat in his chest. She licks her lips, any remnants of the chicken replaced by that lighter, Terezi smell, and grimaces. Dave slacks his fingers and she shakes her head, smiling as she reaches under her back.

"Ew." She says, shoveling the chicken back towards the discarded bag. "That -is- pretty fucking nasty."

"Nothing too good for my girl," he says.

"And, he's back." She settles back into the bed. "But for how long?"

Dave doesn't quite like how much he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks at that, but it's nothing compared to his ears when her arms slip around his chest. When her fingers come to rest at the back of his neck, the fucking petting again, he swears that his face must smell like a god damned candy store for her. He leans in a bit closer, his nose nearly touching her ear, and she just squeezes him.

"Are we waiting on an invitation?"

This close, she's just a little too pretty to be pissed at. Her half-closed eyes, lips, bitten blue, and the warmth that just fucking jumps off of her skin. Throat slammed dry again, Dave tries to swallow back his tongue as he tightens his hold.

At the first pressure, her fingers press to the back of his neck. They're warm, and just the slightest bit damp as they slip a millimeter towards his shirt collar. Dave raises an eyebrow from behind his glasses and opens his mouth to slip in a comment, but the shaky little sigh that sneaks past her lips knocks him dumb for, well, way too many times in the last hour. Let alone a whole day, hell, ever.

Dave turns his wrist, taking hold behind her neck with his fingers and resting his thumb across her throat. Terezi inhales and tugs his whole body closer by the armpits. He runs the edge of his thumb along the length of her windpipe that touches just behind her skin. Her chest expands and the rush of air inside is apparent, so much more than Dave ever thought it would be, if he'd often entertained ideas of throttling small women. Which he probably didn't. Right? The tip of her nose brushes his and when she exhales it's slow and shaky.

"Come on," she says.

He can feel more words coming, and presses down instead of listening. She, her throat, gives easily. Like kinking a rubber hose. Her nails set themselves into his shoulders and her lips open and close with no sound. No shaky sighing. No sarcastic teasing. Just silence and her eyes clamped shut so hard that her forehead scrunches together.

' -Jesus fucking Christ, girl-' Is the first thought that crosses his mind, but the only sound that leaves his mouth is a rattling, disbelieving breath that shakes in time with his wrist. One, two, three seconds more roll by and when he tries to wet his cracking lips, with a tongue so sticky it hurts, he lets his hand go limp. Color rushes into her lips and she squirms beneath him, pressing her tiny frame up into his chest and scrambling to take hold of his hair.

"Wow," is all he can manage to force out.

"Shit." She says, trying to hold back the tiny coughs that keep forcing their way back up her throat. "Shit, shit, shit, Dave."

This time, he doesn't bother with waiting, resituating, or pausing for another comment. This time he's adapted, and she's given him permission. When he squeezes now, he does it with a healthy dose of "I am Dave Strider and fine, god damn, we'll do it your way, my way."

Her forehead smooths and she shivers under his grip, fingers wrapped tight into his hair. He feels her lips still moving in that ridiculous fish flapping and he snags them into a kiss. He holds her there, no moving, no stroking, nothing. Holds her there in a moment of straight up, no holds barred, skin-to-skin contact. His hand, her neck, and their lips.

The moment barrels on long enough that he's got the time to begin to wonder how safe this sort of thing is, that he's never really thought about it, and just how long a troll brain can survive without air before things start shutting down and safety words become pointless. Well, more pointless. Context. And then she bucks, just once, but hard, beneath him.

His hand flies away and he's suddenly thankful he'd never ditched the glasses because they're hiding a, shamefully unironic, look of 'Holy motherfucking shit' as his focus jumps around the room. Thinking, thinking, thinking about what exactly the emergency protocol is for accidentally killing your alien girlfriend in a bout of improvised, chicken-messy, kinky-makeouts.

She coughs, chokes out a quick one-two gasp, and reaches for his shirt.

"Holy shit, Tz, wha-" And then she has him in a shaky death grip back on the mattress.

He tries to struggle back upright or, hell, even roll over, but she keeps her arms wrapped tight around his middle. She buries her face into his neck and shudders, hard, when he tries to move away again. Another rocking twist and she doesn't fight it. Dave rolls onto his back, incidentally, away from the chickeny grease-pile, and she follows. He reaches up to touch the back of her head and she doesn't stop him, half of her body still trailing sidelong on the bed despite her hold on his trunk.

"Terezi?" He says.

"Shh-" Her words rattle in time with the shaking in her shoulders. "Shh-...shh-..."

"Shit?," he says. "New favorite word?"

"N-no," He can actually hear her gritting her teeth. "Just shush."

Fucking. Hell. The little stutter sends a shiver down Dave's spine and he leaves his hand at the back of her head, bracing the small of her back with the other. When his fingers land at the base of her spine, shirt riding so high now that she's nearly bare from her shoulder blades down, she actually purrs. Okay, it's still one of those high-in-the-mouth purring noises, but, damn, it's a nice noise regardless. Literally, beautiful.

Before she's stopped, Dave can feel her lips against his neck. Warm, still a little clammy, but again and again. He strokes the back of her head, fingertips grazing the points of her horns, and she curls in against him. Her legs pull in to his side and she slides her arms between their bodies. By the time her fingers graze his collarbone he can hear tiny, whispered, sounds popping under his jaw. His name.

"Terezi?" He pulls back and she rolls her head up towards him, eyes still closed. "You cool?"

"So cool." Her lips and nose and cheeks are practically painted teal. "You don't even know..."

"There is some serious shit wrong with you."

"Yeah, probably."

Eyes opening on reflex when she lifts her head, she scooches a little bit further up his chest and hovers just below his chin. Even though he knows she can't really -see- it, Dave smiles at her. Terezi Pyrope, a bad idea nine times out of ten, able to play him like a goddamn handcrafted, Adirondack hardinger fiddle, and, sometimes, he doesn't care. She bites her lip and he just watches it slip through her teeth, grey tinged blue and way softer than anything should be allowed.

"Dave?" Her voice is small again as she drums her fingers on his chest. "Can you-"

There's something more coming. Maybe round two. Maybe bad news. Hell, maybe next she's going to want him in some assless fucking chaps that she's probably got hidden somewhere. But, hey, whatever, we'll take care of that when it happens. Right now, all he can see are those lips. He doesn't care if she's got an entire phonebook of filibuster in the queue, it can wait.

And when he pulls her forward by the back of her head and mashes her, gently goddamn it, into a kiss, the last thing she's trying to do is stop him. He can feel her hands, warm and a little sweaty from being crushed up under her, at the sides of his neck and he suppresses another smile when she starts stroking his ears with her thumbs. She actually bites at his lip as he pulls away and drops her head to his shoulder. Nuzzling his neck, she shoves her arms under his head and sighs.

"Can I?" He lies back on her wrists and plays with the loose hair falling over her shoulders.

"Kiss me." She says. He can feel her pressing her nose to his skin, breathing him in, and he relaxes. The feeling is comforting, if not somewhat weird.

"Now," he shifts under her. "I'm not so sure about you, but I'm not exactly smitten with the idea of sleeping in a puddle of grease."

Terezi rolls away and throws her arms wide over the rumpled, dirty comforter.

"It reminds me of home," she says. "But not enough to nap in, I suppose."

She huddles back in to herself, pulling Dave's arm in against her stomach, and yawns. Dave slides himself back to the headboard, dragging her along, and sits upright. Scraps of chicken litter the top of the bed and his sock is still mushy with slaw. Terezi's laundry is scattered in piles across the floor and he's sure he's sitting on the television remote. From here, he can see a splotchy stain stretching between Terezi's shoulders and he drops his head back against the headboard. As much as he hates to admit it, there is a particular, home-ish quality to all of this shit.

A shadow crosses the room and Dave rolls his attention to the window, watching the blotch on the curtains fade as another guest makes their way out into the parking lot. He listens and waits for the sounds of an engine turning over. When nothing comes he decides that he's not interested anymore and turns back to the tiny grey girl attached to his arm. Her shoulders are speckled with chicken-crisp and her breathing has evened out. He shakes his hand to stir her.

"Oy, Pyrope," he says. "We've got to clean a little of this shit up."

She grumbles.

"At least off the bed," he pauses. "...Or you."

She forces herself up from the bed, all grumpy, toddler face and messy hair, staring him down as best she can with a pair of crooked sunglasses. Hand now freed, Dave hooks it around the back of her head and pulls her into a clumsy forehead bump. Her expression softens and a goofy smile pulls her lips back until the pointed tips of her teeth begin poking out.

"You are so lucky I like you, Dave Strider."

He drops his hand and tugs at the hem of her shirt; she lifts her hands into the air.

"Or you'd probably devour me in my sleep rather than venture out into the world for sustenance, I know."

Her shirt slips over her head, taking her glasses along for the ride, and she covers herself with her folded arms.

"Pff," She says. "You give me too much credit."

He tosses the shirt off into one of the piles, hopefully dirty, and bends down to sift through the chaos of food and funk littering the floor.

"You want a new one or you just going to go back to sleep like that?," he says.

She throws her feet out behind and plops forward, pressing her bare chest into the mattress. Dave feels her fingers on the underside of his chin as he peels an extra-crispy thigh from the underside of an extra-crispy sweat sock.

"Can I have one of yours?"

Were he not wildly infatuated with this girl, that in-sink-erator grin would be terrifying.

"I think we can work something out."

She rests her chin on the back of her wrist and he can feel her eyes on him as he scrapes indiscriminate handfuls of crap into whatever loose shopping bag, trash can, or pillow case he can find. He separates them into two piles; fuck it and garbage, before turning back to Terezi. Her hair has fallen across her face and, with the wall-lights turned back to full, the lines of her dark back are thrown into crazy contrast with the neutral, won't-show-human-fluids cream of the bed sheets.

"I could do without if you'd like that better"

Dave makes his way back to the bed, sidestepping a pile of socks, and sinks onto the edge of the mattress. Terezi's glasses poke out from underneath the rumpled bed-skirt and he lifts them up to her. She wrinkles her nose and pushes them away towards the nightstand. He wedges them into a cluster of empty soda cups and straw wrappers.

"Do not tempt me, woman." Her nails pluck pluck pluck at the seams of his pant legs. "You stay bare and neither of us get any shut-eye this evening."

"Lovely as that sounds," she nuzzles up to his hip. "I would like a little snooze eventually. So, I'd suggest finding me something soon."

Dave takes another look around the room. Piles on piles of laundry with no real way of separating the funky from the fresh, though it all looks a bit more habitable with the bulk of the trash threat relegated to 'fuck it' et. al. At a loss, Dave contemplates the implications of simply returning the grease-bucket ensemble, and toughing it out until a trip to the laundromat, for several moments before Terezi works her hands up under his shirt.

"Daaaave," she says. "Sleeeepyyyy."

"You're an infant."

"Big-girl wiggler," she hums.

Her cheek is warm against his back and he watches her hands as she wraps herself around his waist. He can feel her breathing, a gentle hush despite the earlier excitement, and the will to retort wavers. The pads of his glasses slip down his nose with a quiet clicking and he relents.

"Would you like this one, dear?"

"Well, if you're going to twist it so hard."

Both shirtless, she sits with her back to him and again he is struck by the lines. So familiar, but with an unnamable tinge of something strange just underneath. Here and there a subtle shadow shifts in a way that's just not the same on a human girl, though the overall topography remains painful in its sameness. The jut of her shoulder blades. The flare of her hips.

"Well?" She turns her head back and raises an eyebrow.

"Here, damn." Dave holds the shirt out to her, but all she does is raise her arms above her head, back still turned. She wiggles her hips and makes a pouty little grunting noise. Dave rolls his eyes and flops the shirt over top of her hands. It sinks down to her elbows, bunching at the top of her head. She grumbles.

"Come onnnn," she says and wiggles her arms, flapping the too-big sleeves in the air. "Do it right."

Sliding over, Dave reaches up and slides the whole thing down and over her head with one quick flip. The collar catches on one of her horns and stretches, leaving the whole thing looking like floppy red bacon as it drapes over her narrow shoulders.

"I still don't get the neediness, Pyrope."

She leans back into his chest.

"I never get to be babied," she says.

Her hands drop down onto his knees. Again with the petting.

"So, I like to take advantage of it."

"Of me?"

"No," she stifles a half-cackle. "Of the things you do for me."

Dave can feel the flush pouring down from his cheeks, to his neck, to his chest and waits. Waits for her to turn, flash that smug hacksaw grin, and just lay in. But beat, beat, beat...

"You smell nice." Sleep sits on the edge of her voice.

She turns and huddles into his chest, hands folded and tucked under her chin.

"I like when you do things for me." Her eyelids bob and she stares away without any attempt for focus. "It makes me feel special."

"Fair enough."

"Like, I don't know," she says. "Like, you actually give a shit about having me around."

"Yeah...," Dave follows her eyes. Nothing. He still forgets, from time to time, that they're little more than decoration. "I should probably take all that shit out to the trash, or it'll never go."

She brushes her nose against his skin and smiles, a soft, smooth little thing without any of the customary points or barbs.

"Going naked?"

"Yup, nipples for the world."

"That's nice." Her breathing's slowed again, deep and even.

He shrugs her off onto the bed and she falls into place like a drowsy cat, wrapping her fingers into the comforter and tugging the folds up to her chin. Her hair falls across her forehead in messy little gouts and the urge to push them back, straighten them just a little, hell, to just touch her, pulls Dave's hand from his lap and out into the air.

"Dave?"

His hand flashes back to his side. "Mmhm?"

"Try not to sex too many human ladies on the trip back," she yawns. "I'm too sleepy for revenge killings tonight."

"Baby, you know I can mute the Strider swag for no lady. Terrestrial or Xeno."

"You -do- possess charm attributes of wicked heights," she says, snuggling into the pillows. "But try to behave for my sake?"

"I'll do what I can, babes."

He stays still for a moment, elbows on his knees and mussed hair falling down in front of his glasses. The patterns on the dingy wallpaper shift as his eyes lose focus and he throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut and sighing. Before he realizes it, his head falls into a pile of bunched comforter and he's staring at the ceiling.

The room is quiet, save the husky hushing sound of the furnace kicking to life somewhere in the walls. A dull whoosh of hot air blankets the room and a yawn overtakes Dave's body, twisting his back and locking his legs out straight. Just as he begins thinking to himself how nice it would be to simply drift off here, snoozing under the vents and just generally giving zero shits, he notices the insistent prodding of tiny grey toes, cold and nagging against his chest.

"Oy," Terezi murmurs into her pillow. "Take out the trash before the whole room smells like fried cluckbeast."

"As opposed to stale poptarts and your dirty socks?"

"Take it ouuut." She whines and drums his side with the balls of her feet.

He rolls and drops from the bed, listening to his back pop as he stretches toward the ceiling. Fuck it and Garbage remained nestled by the front door, eager to be freed of their dingy low-pile carpet prison, and he grabs his coat from one of the piles as he makes his way over. Goose bumps rise at the feel of the cool, poly-silk liner against his bare skin and he decides to forsake shoes in the name of an undignified quick-dash to the dumpster outside. He grabs the bags, takes a quick look back at Terezi, already sprawling out in a facedown spread-eagle under the covers, and tugs open the door.

"Daaave."

Her voice is half muffled by everything she's buried herself in.

"Mm?"

She rolls over, pulls herself into a tiny grey ball, and smiles.

"Come back quick."

He can feel an embarrassing amount of heat rising in his face and he grunts in the affirmative before slipping out of the door, pulling it shut behind himself with his toes.

Satisfied, by the tinny click of the door-latch, that she's sealed away from his smell and sound, he slumps against the door. Emptying his lungs, he watches the wispy cloud float away into the night, catching the glare of the neon lights, reflected in the windshield of their beaten down old pick-up truck.

"That girl is so much trouble..."


	3. Dreams

Her dreams are drunk with the smell of him and she navigates the bubbles by feel. From the scratchy scuff of the no-tell carpet under foot to the dewy swish of park grass between her toes, what her world now lacks by way of color comes surging back through every other available sense. And, for a while, she wanders, barely attentive to the shifts, the little gaps in the feeling of things, as each bubble wobbles and breaks around her. There is the squeaking of the feathery monsters that litter his world by day, and it fades into the noise and rumble of his cities with a pop that would have been near tangible had she cared to notice. Soon, though he still clogs her head, the feelings become strange; the borrowed memories of new lives in new cities, alien.

Sand, sand up to her ankles, and a chill that slips through to her sleeping bones. This bubble is small, spatially. She can feel it stretch into the empty stuff, the medium in which in floats. But inside it stretches. Forests and sands at her feet but water beyond, almost forever. She takes a step and the beach drops like a rubber sheet pulled taut, the world sinking for an instant before it oozes back and settles. Wind cuts his smell from her nose and the harsh bite of winter-chilled seawater takes its place.

The world floods into view, wet-slate greys, balmy, latex greens, dirty browns, the far off, bleached, manila sand, stark and unwelcome in its abruptness. Another gust and Terezi wraps her arms around her torso, searching for the warmth in the bed on the outside. She struggles to remember and the feeling gives way to a new baseline. She recognizes, though can't quite resolve, the bleakness and the sadness that permeate the beach.

Another step and the shaking stops, the bubble solidified for the moment, and she inhales. Dreams are foggy at best and the smells come to her through cotton. She drops to the sand, curled small with her knees to her chest, and sniffs the waves as they roll in to shore. She splashes, wrist-deep and reckless, into the foam at the water's edge. There is something new in the air. Snow.

Snow. Snow and something else as the world begins to shrink, collapsing in on itself. Scents far away shudder and drop off into nothing, though their sounds linger behind as shells. Soon, she finds herself isolated, closed into a bubble that assaults the senses with its brash saltiness. The wind dies and behind there is a sniffling.

She spins and the first thing is his hand, the skin and fingers younger than waking, though the rest soon follows. His body is draped over something soft and small that reeks with the same tang as the wind. Bitter, and cold, and sad. When the bright lime green of her dress fades into being, the scent sends a spark of jealous resentment down into the pit of Terezi's stomach.

It flares for a moment, threatening to send her nauseous as the girl's smell mixes with the memory-scent that the wind pulls from his motionless silhouette, and she struggles to her knees. Scrambling through the sand, the urge to rip into the appartion, to send the bits of this bubble flying into the black nothing between dreams, and frustration at her own mind for letting her end up here, send her stumbling. She freezes as her feet sink into something cold, and sticky, and gritty. The scent overpowers her, knees sent weak by the sweet, wet strawberry, and the wind-dried cinnamon gumming the sand beneath her. There is the salt, the sweet, the berries, and the bitter. The mixture, the staining of what is _hers_, by this pathetic, pitiful nastiness, is overshadowed by the realization of where she stands.

She waits, dumbstruck, in the sand of someone else's dream. The girl in the dress turns to face her.

Terezi can smell the flush plastered on by the wind. Its a raw, vulnerable smell; clammy and lacking the sweetness of the real world. The girl turns back to his body and gathers his limpness into her lap, crossing his hands over his waist and balancing his head on top of her thighs. When she lifts her hand to wipe his face clean, his arm falls free into the sand. Terezi chokes on the sweet and sour smell of it all. It is strong. Not muffled by the dreamscape, but pressed tight over her face and forced into her lungs. The scent is as unwelcome as it is familiar and she fights the knot grasping at her throat as the smell, his smell, her secret memory of that gummy, pink smell, fills the constricted bubble of the dream.

Terezi opens her mouth, but nothing comes. Still and silent, she shrinks into herself.

Everything from before is gone and she shivers in the sticky sand. Terezi reaches out to the girl in front of her, to touch her, to reassure her, to do something. She stops short. The girl turns. Her face is screwed up and wet.

"No more," her shoulders shiver and her sob is cut off by a new rush of wind. "No more."

They freeze, eyes locked and the world in seizure. In that moment, as the bubble begins to shake and collapse, Terezi can smell the punchy evergreen of the girl's eyes. It creeps into the air; winding with the red, the void-stuff, and the salt. Tears pour from her eyes faster than she can wipe them, plied as much by the wind as by the ache in her chest. Green fingers grip her, hold her face, invade her nose. She struggles, she coughs, her stomach tightens, her mouth waters, and a tiny, insidious tendril of sweet, sour, pink-red wisp touches her tongue.

Pain splits her jaw and she doubles at the waist as a wracking heave forces a mint-green cloud from her throat. It shatters the tenuous bounds of the bubble and hurls her, vulnerable, to the void.

End over end she tumbles through nothing. Bright flecks of worlds far off, dotting the air she cannot breathe. She reaches for one, fails, and then another. Swallowed, she falls to a dust-covered floor in a forest of ankles. Everything pulses and flashes with the million colors of light through sweat thrown by sound. A foot drives her hand to the gritty pavement and her shouts are absorbed by the crowd. A wave rolls through her gut as the crowd parts and another cloud escapes her.

The mist rises, kaleidoscoped and held in place by every flash of light. It twists, pale fingers reaching for the ceiling, and then freezes. Everything freezes. The crowd has ceased its jumping and the lights mix, stationary, in the air. In the stillness, he takes shape.

Felt-green and marinated in chalky thickness he is still a child; his face still fresh and milky, with no hint of the strawberries that pulled him from adolescence. He's still hidden and his red is a bitter, medicinal bite that sends the floor swimming beneath her.

He lowers himself to one knee and watches her. Shivering in the dust, her fingers refuse to obey and her nails scratch sickly lines on the dirty floor.

"You don't belong here."

And again she is falling.

Through a nothing that gives like concrete she falls until the world smells of meat and acid and off-white porcelain. She falls until there is no more falling to do. Until her head, hanging over cloudy water and the sickness caked to her bright-red sleeves, stops and simply dangles from her neck.

A grumbling from inside, and her stomach twists. Something rolls out and over her lips, all water, sour, and an unpleasant chunkiness. Her hair feels like grease as she clears it from her forehead. Arms shaking, she lowers herself to the floor and draws her knees, sweaty and prickled with bumps from the cold, to her chest.

From outside, outside the tile and the gloss, a door slams shut. The noise rides the carpet on a gust of frozen air, tainted tar-black and thick with the scent of petrol. It is heavy, it is dark, it is bitter. It calms her stomach in the moments before he comes for her.

At first he's little more than voice behind the door, sound.

"You alright?"

The space beneath her tongue floods as she opens her mouth to shoo him away. _'Yeah. Fine.'_,tumbles out as a strained whining.

He cracks the door and his smells enter uninvited. Her knees crack the tile as her jaw cramps, the gummy-pink like lightning below her teeth. The bowl below her chin throws the sound back into her ears.

"No, damn, go awa-"

But her body cuts her short and another surge of awful mouthfuls forces its way out. Her mouth is fouled and colors fade as she pants, drool coating her lips as she blinks back the wetness at the corners of her eyes.

Part of her is thankful for the heaving. Hopeful that the mess will scare him away, will send him off just long enough for her to gather herself. Holding her eyes shut, she waits for more to come and for the sound of the door. Breaths pass, her nose stuffed from the stress and the stinging nastiness in her throat, but there is no closing. There is, however, a muddled shuffling and shifting of sundry in the room proper, and then the quiet padding of flesh on tile.

She growls under her breath, turning to face him; to protest. But she's slow, tired, and before she can struggle, his hands are at the back of her neck. She shudders involuntarily as he gathers her hair into his fingers, snarling, and working to pull away as he tugs it into a rough, rubber-banded bunch. His knees brush her thigh as he seats himself on the floor, she swings for his chest and connects with a half-hearted slap.

"I said 'go away.'" Afraid to draw her face away from the water, she speaks to the echoes.

"You're on fire." He says, fingers cupped against the back of her neck.

The proximity packs his scent into her, and it's strong enough to crawl through the coating in her mouth and nose. Her eyes prick and she struggles, inching herself away on her knees without ever relinquishing the smooth, cool support of the bowl. He follows, or tries to follow, but she kicks, and scratches, and finally pulls herself from the watery safety net to press her body to the wall. Her words tumble out over ungraceful belching and a guilty wrenching below her ribs.

"No, fuck, get." She says, gasping. "Take the hint and leave."

The sleeves of his stolen shirt fall loose and swallow her hands, the damp fabric bunching under her fingers as she tries to wipe intruding tears from her eyes. And then cool touch of his fingers is on her skin, against her forehead, her temple, the bare-skin where her glasses should be. Her head thumps the wall and she throws her palm over her nose and mouth to block out the color, muted pink, asphalt grey, and that horrible, awful convenience store redness, that forces its way in. Her mouth waters, her stomach rolls, and her protest is cut off by another gout that spills, warm, through her fingers. She drops her hands, purses her lips and tries to twist away, biting back a sniffle as he closes in on her.

There are no shapes when he touches her. Sensations, warmth, the scratching of dirty cloth, and the sudden chill of the paper and drywall at her back. His fingers leave and she wraps herself in elbows, breasts pooled in the narrow crevice between her ribs and wrists. Running her tongue along her teeth the taste is foul. Her pride hurts worse than her stomach.

Running water, and she expects the cloth, rough and wet on her skin. She obliges with stillness but keeps her breath terse. Back pressed to the wall, she refuses to move no matter how he turns her, huffing through her mouth to avoid what little of him comes through. His palm is at her chest now and his fingers stick to her skin, her head wobbles. He touches her chin; she mewls and shows her teeth.

He stands, the padding of his feet quicker now, and a sudden hushing of water fills the room. Spray flecks her skin and it chills. Her thighs, her feet, her hands are misted before he pulls the curtain. With a certain disappointment, she lifts her fingers to lick it. Her limbs are lead.

"Come on, please...," he says.

Her tongue grazes his flesh as his fingers ring her wrist. The protest on her lips coats her knees instead as she's lifted into kneeling. And now it's gone beyond the dream, beyond the visions in the void, it's in the waking world and the hurt is real. Frustration spills out as tears and she hates herself for it, hates that she feels, and hates that he can see it.

Beneath her toes the tile gives way like the sand and she throws her arm out wide, catching the curtain, and then his arm. Her nails come back strawberry and she kicks. She twists. She rolls. He won't let her leave and that strawberry smears itself across her chest. Air comes to her with reluctance and she wretches as the water hits her. Ice sending red, sending acid, sending him, back up into her mouth. Mostly air now, her body forces what is left past her lips and it leaves her drained. Rivulets course over her crown, pool in the creases of her eyelids, and drain between her breasts. She breathes, she wavers, he does not let her fall.

When her head steadies, there is still water. It's pleasant, no longer icy, and she rolls her head back. The crook of his neck is waiting and she drops her hands to his thighs. Wet denim, she feels it because the only smell here is the cool chlorine on their skin. Denim at her fingers, but nothing at her back. She inhales, taking her time so as to keep the water out.

The sourness is gone. Her stomach is calm.

Memories of salt and lights and falling linger, but they're weak.

Evergreen, and mint, and chalk, and felt.

And strawberry.

With a start she gropes for his arms, searching until she finds them. The parallel lines are deeper than she'd like. Beneath the water, their scent is gone but he winces when she grazes them. He places his arm across her chest and she presses her lips to his shoulder. Moments carry water into her eyes.

"Why wouldn't you leave?"

"Why would I?"

Something in her chest goes tight when she feels his fingers spread beneath her collarbone. Just like the night in the park, there is a charm in how he dwarfs her in the most mundane ways.

The water carries his hair down the back of his neck, and it flows between her fingers. His lips touch her neck and she gasps, twisting between his knees. Rolling, she turns to him. Set back on her haunches, still shorter than him, seated, fingers following the lines in his neck. She leans in, he straightens his back.

He runs his nose along hers, grazing the corner of her eye, and she sighs, a shaky little thing that ignores the water coursing along her spine. She takes hold of his head. Their lips touch. There is a scent, familiar in its strangeness, and it leaves her fingers shaking.


End file.
